The Heart of Mid-Lothian, Complete by Walter Scott (books to read in your 20s txt) 📕

“Troth, Mr. Sharpitlaw, I’ll be frank wi’ ye; Robertson is rather a cut abune me—a wild deevil he was, and mony a daft prank he played; but except the Collector’s job that Wilson led him into, and some tuilzies about run goods wi’ the gaugers and the waiters, he never did onything that came near our line o’ business.”

“Umph! that’s singular, considering the company he kept.”

“Fact, upon my honour and credit,” said Ratcliffe, gravely. “He keepit out o’ our little bits of affairs, and that’s mair than Wilson did; I hae dune business wi’ Wilson afore now. But the lad will come on in time; there’s nae fear o’ him; naebody will live the life he has led, but what he’ll come to sooner or later.”

“Who or what is he, Ratcliffe? you know, I suppose?” said Sharpitlaw.

“He’s better born, I judge, than he cares to let on; he’s been a soldier, and he has been a play-actor, and I watna what he has been or hasna been, for as young as he is, sae that it had daffing and nonsense about it.”

“Pretty pranks he has played in his time, I suppose?”

“Ye may say that,” said Ratcliffe, with a sardonic smile; “and” (touching his nose) “a deevil amang the lasses.”

“Like enough,” said Sharpitlaw. “Weel, Ratcliffe, I’ll no stand niffering wi’ ye; ye ken the way that favour’s gotten in my office; ye maun be usefu’.”

“Certainly, sir, to the best of my power—naething for naething—I ken the rule of the office,” said the ex-depredator.

“Now the principal thing in hand e’en now,” said the official person, “is the job of Porteous’s; an ye can gie us a lift—why, the inner turnkey’s office to begin wi’, and the captainship in time—ye understand my meaning?”

“Ay, troth do I, sir; a wink’s as gude as a nod to a blind horse; but Jock Porteous’s job—Lord help ye!—I was under sentence the haill time. God! but I couldna help laughing when I heard Jock skirting for mercy in the lads’ hands. Mony a het skin ye hae gien me, neighbour, thought I, tak ye what’s gaun: time about’s fair play; ye’ll ken now what hanging’s gude for.”

“Come, come, this is all nonsense, Rat,” said the procurator. “Ye canna creep out at that hole, lad; you must speak to the point—you understand me—if you want favour; gif-gaf makes gude friends, ye ken.”

“But how can I speak to the point, as your honour ca’s it,” said Ratcliffe, demurely, and with an air of great simplicity, “when ye ken I was under sentence and in the strong room a’ the while the job was going on?”

“And how can we turn ye loose on the public again, Daddie Rat, unless ye do or say something to deserve it?”

“Well, then, d—n it!” answered the criminal, “since it maun be sae, I saw Geordie Robertson among the boys that brake the jail; I suppose that will do me some gude?”

“That’s speaking to the purpose, indeed,” said the office-bearer; “and now, Rat, where think ye we’ll find him?”

“Deil haet o’ me kens,” said Ratcliffe; “he’ll no likely gang back to ony o’ his auld howffs; he’ll be off the country by this time. He has gude friends some gate or other, for a’ the life he’s led; he’s been weel educate.”

“He’ll grace the gallows the better,” said Mr. Sharpitlaw; “a desperate dog, to murder an officer of the city for doing his duty! Wha kens wha’s turn it might be next?—But you saw him plainly?”

“As plainly as I see you.”

“How was he dressed?” said Sharpitlaw.

“I couldna weel see; something of a woman’s bit mutch on his head; but ye never saw sic a ca’-throw. Ane couldna hae een to a’ thing.”

“But did he speak to no one?” said Sharpitlaw.

“They were a’ speaking and gabbling through other,” said Ratcliffe, who was obviously unwilling to carry his evidence farther than he could possibly help.

“This will not do, Ratcliffe,” said the procurator; “you must speak out—out—out,” tapping the table emphatically, as he repeated that impressive monosyllable.

“It’s very hard, sir,” said the prisoner; “and but for the under-turnkey’s place—”

“And the reversion of the captaincy—the captaincy of the Tolbooth, man—that is, in case of gude behaviour.”

“Ay, ay,” said Ratcliffe, “gude behaviour!—there’s the deevil. And then it’s waiting for dead folk’s shoon into the bargain.”

“But Robertson’s head will weigh something,” said Sharpitlaw; “something gey and heavy, Rat; the town maun show cause—that’s right and reason—and then ye’ll hae freedom to enjoy your gear honestly.”

“I dinna ken,” said Ratcliffe; “it’s a queer way of beginning the trade of honesty—but deil ma care. Weel, then, I heard and saw him speak to the wench Effie Deans, that’s up there for child-murder.”

“The deil ye did? Rat, this is finding a mare’s nest wi’ a witness.—And the man that spoke to Butler in the Park, and that was to meet wi’ Jeanie Deans at Muschat’s Cairn—whew! lay that and that together? As sure as I live he’s been the father of the lassie’s wean.”

“There hae been waur guesses than that, I’m thinking,” observed Ratcliffe, turning his quid of tobacco in his cheek, and squirting out the juice. “I heard something a while syne about his drawing up wi’ a bonny quean about the Pleasaunts, and that it was a’ Wilson could do to keep him frae marrying her.”

Here a city officer entered, and told Sharpitlaw that they had the woman in custody whom he had directed them to bring before him.

“It’s little matter now,” said he, “the thing is taking another turn; however, George, ye may bring her in.”

The officer retired, and introduced, upon his return, a tall, strapping wench of eighteen or twenty, dressed, fantastically, in a sort of blue riding-jacket, with tarnished lace, her hair clubbed like that of a man, a Highland bonnet, and a bunch of broken feathers, a riding-skirt (or petticoat) of scarlet camlet, embroidered with tarnished flowers. Her features were coarse and masculine, yet at a little distance, by dint of very bright wild-looking black eyes, an aquiline nose, and a commanding profile, appeared rather handsome. She flourished the switch she held in her hand, dropped a courtesy as low as a lady at a birth-night introduction, recovered herself seemingly according to Touchstone’s directions to Audrey, and opened the conversation without waiting till any questions were asked.

“God gie your honour gude-e’en, and mony o’ them, bonny Mr. Sharpitlaw!—Gude-e’en to ye, Daddie Ratton—they tauld me ye were hanged, man; or did ye get out o’ John Dalgleish’s hands like half-hangit Maggie Dickson?”

“Whisht, ye daft jaud,” said Ratcliffe, “and hear what’s said to ye.”